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I live in a 900-square-foot, two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment. Each bedroom has a full bathroom, a closet, and area for a desk. The kitchen is relatively large with a dishwasher, stove and oven, large sink, washer and dryer, and full refrigerator. A living room hosts a couch, chair, table, and television. The ceilings are expansive and tall; not palatial, but more than necessary. Maybe it’s just my “phase of life,” but this space feels like more than enough. What more could I need?

At 27 years old, I make enough to live. My salary is just over $20,000 each year. I can’t really save much considering the costs of my education and ancillary costs, but I’m happy with what I have. There’s room for improvement, but as I look at my apartment and stuff, I can’t help but feel embarrassed by the relative opulence. Most of the world doesn’t have it this good. I have everything I need right now.

If I were married, the apartment would actually feel even larger, too. Currently, my roommate’s stuff occupies a solid half of the apartment. If it was just my partner and I, we would share the same space, and only need one bedroom. The other room could become an office, dayroom — whatever! Heck, it could be a walk-in closet for all I care!

Over 900 square feet, I would begin to feel the creep of growth — the push to fill space whenever emptiness is present. Whether it’s my philosophical values of frugality or minimalism or a desire to minimize my carbon impact, I’d hesitate to grow beyond these walls. They wouldn’t be necessary.

However, it’s important to consider whether my tendency toward extremism is getting the best of me. Could there be a time in life when 900 square feet might not be enough? Potentially. If I had a larger family or needed to make room for my parents or some other unique situation arose, I could see the need. But it would be temporary to expand to the need of others, not constant space for the rest of my life. I’d want to downsize again.

Last week, I was reading an article in The New York Times about couples who had moved decades ago into the suburbs surrounding New York City. Some had moved into large bungalows and McMansions to raise families, enjoy the slower life, and have more room to grow.

One family raised three children in a 2,400-square-foot home. For those struggling with math like me, that’d be 5 people — 3 more than my roommate and I. With about 500 square feet per resident, the house could probably be quite a comfortable location. When accounting for the size of the home, it doesn’t include off-site storage, yards, and/or storage sheds that can be added later.

Now, later in life and three adult children, this family is looking to downsize and move back to the city, culture, and bustle of Manhattan. Who can blame them, too? New York City is fun — there’s always something to do, eat, and see. But as that couple looked for locations, they came up empty. They said all they could find were “depressing,” “very small” places at 900 square feet.

My jaw dropped at the statement. I was shocked! Here I’ve been living in apartments of 900 or less square feet for about 4 years; yet, this couple was struggling to move into such a space. What was I missing?!

Here’s what I suspect:

People develop and find a comfort in abundance. To downsize may be a reflection of lost class and status.

There’s a fear of giving up and away. Some material goods might not keep us alive, but are still hard to part with.

Despite a “couple’s” desire to downsize, there might be discrepancies. Making a move up, down, or laterally isn’t always mutually agreed upon in the relationship. Those contrasting aspects can prevent people from committing to a serious downsize.

We reach an adaptational level, which sets a new normal. Anything less just doesn’t feel “right.”

Surrounded by a culture of mass and materialism, it’s hard to buck that trend and go small.

The reality is smaller spaces are freeing for people young and old. Not having lots of material goods and space means you can vacation when you want, dig into more expensive cultures, and enjoy a break from endless chores. And more importantly, plenty of normal, average, everyday people live in small spaces with great efficiency (Just look at this couple who lives in a beautiful, 420-square-foot apartment).

For years, magazines, newspapers, and all other forms of media have stressed how wealthy people buy opulent homes. Tens of millions of dollars are spent to afford these palaces. From Bill Gates to Ellen DeGeneres, these homes capture our attention. Don’t we want to be successful just like them?

Rather than duplicate this display of status, we can choose another path. What if we looked for the smallest apartments or homes? What if we looked for less? What if we looked for tiny, modular apartments that move and shift to our needs? What if we gave up our cultural addiction to more stuff in favor the culture out there?

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Hello, roomie!

The windows were open, and I could smell the grass outside. It was green and sunny — not a cloud in the sky. A prototypical Colorado day followed me around, as I moved what little I owned into a small cubby, under a lofted mattress, and into a petite wooden desk.

It was move-in day for college — fall 2007.

I rolled out a single-bed mattress sheet, chintzy comforter, and single pillow cover. The mattress was an ocean blue, and perpetually felt uncomfortable. But it was my new home.

Somewhere in this process, I learned to live with less. I didn’t call it minimalism back then. It didn’t feel like minimalism.

Forced space? Mandated minimalism

I wasn’t given the option to live any other way in college. My closet only accepted a few shirts, shoes, pants, etc. My bedroom didn’t allow for larger mattresses. And my desk only had room for the basic necessities: pens, paper, and laptop.

After my first year of college, I moved into another residence hall to become an “RA” or resident assistant. I loved my position. It was and still is my favorite job. But even then, with a little more room, I was forced to stay minimal.

Now, minimalism doesn’t always mean being frugal. Despite my enclosures, I cycled through lots of things. There was a $1200 road bike (kept outside and then sold), a mini fridge (under the bed and then sold), electronics (a desktop computer and then sold), and more. For everything I bought, I sold something else — both to afford the new item and make space.

I was hardly frugal. I was mad with the need to consume away my problems, concerns, and stresses of school. No matter how much I purchased, the feelings remained.

Where I failed budgetarily, I seemed to succeed in minimalism. My room was still neat and tidy, and presentable to residents and their parents. I didn’t have a need for lots of stuff — nor could I put it anywhere.

While I wasn’t ready to change my spending habits until years later, an inclination towards minimalism was cemented. All it took was a forced restriction from many years of residence hall rooms to prevent the purchase of more than I needed. I developed an affinity for a clean, organized room. I didn’t need or want to have tons of things.

The losses hurt immensely

Another component pushed me towards minimalism: loss. In college I was exposed directly and indirectly to losses in life. Three of my grandparents passed away, three people died by suicide on campus that I knew, and I went through some pretty nasty breakups.

These losses encouraged me to look beyond the petty grievances and consumer comforts of society. What was important was the life of those around me, and spending time with those I cared about. Again, things weren’t as important as people.

During this period of tragedy, I realized how loss of material possessions didn’t matter. Suddenly, I stopped worrying about people stealing my stuff, things failing, and/or leaving my home unattended. Renters insurance seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. I had nothing “priceless.”

What’s going to fit in the trunk?

After college and the losses, I moved for graduate school. Again, it was a time of forced minimalism. I could only take what would fit in my Honda Civic coupe. And there was an added caveat, as my brother would be occupying the passenger seat.

To lighten the load, I listed items on Craigslist and asked friends if they needed odds and ends. Then, my brother and I filled the car with deconstructed IKEA furniture, clothing, and other household items. Our seats were forced upright — unable to recline — by the tightly packed vehicle.

Everything I owned fit into one tiny little car. It felt freeing, but frankly, all I could think about was the truly precious cargo: my brother. If everything else disappeared, let it not be him. That’s all that mattered/matters.

What really matters in life is…

I never sought to be a minimalist in my younger years, it found me. When I entered a small space and shared it with a roommate, I was forced to have less. When I lost loved ones, I was forced to reflect on what was most important. When my brother helped me move, I pictured what I would really need.

Stuff never came first.

Recently, I was grabbing a drink with someone and this question came up: “What would you grab if your apartment/house were on fire (excluding pets and humans)?”

I thought briefly about this question and almost cried. I couldn’t come up with anything. Nothing mattered beyond the human and pet connections in my life. Nothing. I feared the loss of… nothing.